All this, he cries, is FORTUNE's doing,
'Tis thus she meditates my ruin.
By FORTUNE, that false, fickle jade,
More havoc in one hour is made,
Than all the hungry insect race,
Combin'd, can in an age deface.
FORTUNE, by chance, who near him past, O'erheard the vile aspersion cast.
Why, PAN, says she, what's all this rant? 'Tis ev'ry country bubble's cant. Am I the patroness of vice?
Is't I who cog or palm the dice?
Did I the shuffling art reveal,
To mark the cards, or range the deal?
In all th' employments men pursue,
I mind the least what gamesters do.
There may (if computation's just)
One now and then my conduct trust:
I blame the fool; for what can I,
When ninety-nine my pow'r defy ?
These trust alone their fingers' ends,
And not one stake on me depends.
Whene'er the gaming board is set,
Two classes of mankind are met;
But, if we count the greedy race,
The knaves fill up the greater space.
'Tis a gross error, held in schools, That FORTUNE always favours fools: In play it never bears dispute;
That doctrine these fell'd oaks confute.
Then why to me such rancour show?
'Tis FOLLY, PAN, that is thy foe.
By me his late estate he won,
But he by FOLLY was undone.
Of all the burdens man must bear, TIME seems most galling and severe; Beneath this grievous load oppress'd, We daily meet some friend distress'd.
What can one do?-I rose at nine. "Tis full six hours before we dine: Six hours! no earthly thing to do! Would I had doz'd in bed till two.
A pamphlet is before him spread, And almost half a page is read; Tir'd with the study of the day, The flutt'ring sheets are tost away. He opes his snuff-box, hums an air, Then yawns and stretches in his chair.
Not twenty by the minute-hand!
Good GODS! says he, my watch must stand!
How muddling 'tis on books to pore!
I thought I'd read an hour or more.
The morning, of all hours, I hate.
One can't contrive to rise too late.
To make the minutes faster run,
Then too his tiresome self to shun,
To the next coffee-house he speeds,
Takes up the news, some scraps he reads,
Saunt'ring from chair to chair he trails;
Now drinks his tea, now bites his nails.
He spies a partner of his woe;
By chat afflictions lighter grow:
Each other's grievances they share,
And thus their dreadful hours compare.
Says TOM, since all men must confess
That TIME lies heavy, more or less;
Why should it be so hard to get,
Till two, a party at piquet?
Play might relieve the lagging morn:
By cards long wintry nights are borne.
Does not quadrille amuse the fair,
Night after night, throughout the year?
Vapours and spleen forgot, at play
They cheat uncounted hours away.
My case, says WILL, then must be hard, By want of skill from play debarr'd.
Courtiers kill TIME by various ways;
Dependance wears out half their days.
How happy these, whose time ne'er stands !
Attendance takes it off their hands.
Were it not for this cursed show'r,
The park had whil'd away an hour.
At court, without or place or view,
I daily lose an hour or two:
It fully answers my design,
When I have pick'd up friends to dine.
The tavern makes our burden light;
Wine puts our time and care to flight.
At six (hard case!) they call to pay.
Where can one go? I hate the play.
From six till ten!-unless in sleep,
One cannot spend the hours so cheap.
The comedy's no sooner done,
But some assembly is begun :
Loit'ring from room to room I stray,
Converse, but nothing hear or say;
Quite tir'd, from fair to fair I roam,
So soon! I dread the thoughts of home.
From thence, to quicken slow-pac'd night,
Again my tavern friends invite;
Here, too, our early mornings pass,
Till drowsy sleep retards the glass.
Thus they their wretched life bemoan, And make each other's case their own.
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